Not a soul on the street
by Melody Garnet
Summary: It has been months since the Pool and John has given up for Sherlock to rescue him from Moriarty. How will Sherlock react to being haunted? No actual character death, / towards the end, T 'cause I'm paranoid, first fanfic
1. The day of the Pool

**Title:** Not a soul on the street

**Summary:** It has been months since the Pool and John has given up for Sherlock to rescue him from Moriarty. How will Sherlock react to being haunted? Summary sucks like a vampire, No actual character death, / towards the end, M 'cause I'm paranoid, first fanfic

**The Pool, 10 past midnight**

'Sherlock, get out!' yelled Watson. And Sherlock Holmes obeyed. He ran. Through tiled passageways, past showers and lockers and changing rooms. John Watson, best and only friend, right behind him. It had been like that since they met, and it would be like that forever. Holmes and Watson. Watson and Holmes. When Holmes finally pushed open the last door and stepped into the not- chlorined air, he slowed down, panting. 'How's that, aye, John? Faster than an ex-soldier! Maybe you should go to the gym once in a while?' He smiled and turned around, to where he thought John to be. His crooked smile faded. Then he got swept off his feet by the blast. As soon as he had regained consciousness, he scrambled up. Only a handful of superficial wounds caused by shrapnel. His vision was blurred at first, as he was walking towards the collapsed building. But when his vision cleared, he stopped dead in his tracks. _No_.

_John._

His brain used to be thoughts and observations, passing at light speed. Now it was silence. His lips moved but he didn't control them. What was he saying? He didn't know, he didn't care. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn't notice it. He had forgotten how real, genuine tears felt. Usually, Holmes' s emotions were cooled, barely noticeable. Sometimes John could see trough it, though. John noticed such things. Sherlock' s eyes swept left, right, left, right. Over and over again. He had immediately noticed the charred, barely recognisable lumps of burned snipers where the hall used to be._ No. _He was looking for John_. The real John, _Sherlock thought_. _John was not that burned body by the pool. John was _John_. John was jumpers and bright smiles and laughing at bad TV-shows. John was his friend.

_John. _

Moriarty had escaped. Of course. Mycroft had forced him to stay in the hospital, although he wasn't badly hurt. When Sherlock hadn't angrily refused, Mycroft had shot a glance at him, even more worried than before. Sherlock obeyed his brother, so he wouldn't have to face his apartment, full of burning memories. But even in a clinical environment so far from his home, he feared the nights. He dreaded the nightmares that plague him_. _

_He had thought they had escaped him. But not them both, not the one who mattered. John hadn't escaped. And the last words he had heard him say, had been to save him. At first it was a happy dream. Memories concerning John's bright smile and delicious teas. All was blue and peaceful, and Sherlock was fond of this part of the dream. Then John's laughing face was swallowed by red. He heard Moriarty laughing, his words burning his mind. I will burn the heart out of you._

At that moment Sherlock usually wakes up, screaming and shivering, beating in the air around him. At first the nurses had tried to calm him down, but after multiple broken noses and black eyes, they had given up. Now he just lies alone in bed after the nightmares, barely restraining himself from crying. Because no-one will see Sherlock Holmes- self-proclaimed sociopath, consulting detective, genius-cry for a lost life. For _the_ lost life.


	2. The day of the First Voice, part I

**7 months, 221B Baker Street, 12h**

Sherlock was sitting in his favourite sofa, plucking absently at his violin. He knew his life was not different from the life he had lived before he had met John. He had returned to smoking. He seemed to be always out of milk. His teas tasted awful. No differences. And yet his life seemed so _dull,_ so barely worth living for. His life with John had been. Running after bad guys, delicious tea afterwards, Mrs Hudson complaining because they had returned home once again at an ungodly hour. She's their landlady not their housekeeper, for crying out loud! They used to exchange a she's-at-it-again-smile behind her back at that. Now, whenever Sherlock started shooting at the wall again, she did not say as much as a word. She had not put up John's room for renting. Everything laying as if John had closed the door behind him only yesterday. Or so Sherlock expected. He didn't dare to enter the room, afraid of the smell of John still lingering there.

He had discovered she was much more observant than he had thought before. The nightmares kept coming back, and somehow Mrs. Hudson knew when he had cried those nights, even though he knew he cried without so much as a sound. A box of tissues on the table, an invitation to come over and have tea with her, knowing eye's, worried looking. He couldn't stand those eyes. John used to look that way whenever he hadn't slept or eaten because of an interesting case. Everyone had looked at him with those eyes. Even Anderson, when he had told him that he had received the DNA-results and dental records. It wasn't _John_. But it was John's body. John couldn't have escaped Moriarty and Moriarty certainly had had a plan B. Sherlock's plan B had disappeared as soon as he had turned around to see John standing there, his voice stolen. Moriarty was a genius. A stone-cold genius, a true sociopath. He had known his weakness before he had himself. But his weakness was gone. He could be cruel now, he would make Moriarty _pay_ for what he had lost. Pay for the screaming John in his dreams. Pay for the silent John in the graveyard.

No. He didn't want his thoughts to drift that way. Instead he focused on the case DI Lestrade had given him. Moriarty was nowhere to be detected, so there were not many interesting cases. He skimmed trough the file. Easy and boring: a dead TV-star. He cringed a bit when he saw it was John's favourite TV-host, but he ignored it. Coincidence. It was a case so obvious, he could solve it without leaving the apartment . 7 minutes later, he did just that. But as he was reaching out for his phone- he did that himself, now- it rang. Someone was phoning _him_. _Ah_, he thought, _It's one of _those_ days._ It certainly was.

**God knows where (**_**very probably**_** Moriarty's lair), 12h08**

John Watson let himself drop out of the air vent. His body protested, but he ignored it. For all he knew, the guard who had only just left the room could have exceptionally good hearing. He looked around him. _Mmmm_. The dark room was a little home cinema. He couldn't count how many seats there were due to a lack of light. The only light in the room was aimed towards a control board, that ,strangely enough, was equipped with a microphone. Behind it was a big screen surrounded by a collection of little surveillance screens. On several of those screens, guards were running around, looking for him. Criminals guarding an innocent. All had been topsy-turvy for over 198 days . He chuckled, imagining Mr. Genius Sherlock Holmes say "topsy-turvy".

Then the big screen popped on and John saw DI Lestrade, in 4 different perspectives, opening a door for- _Well, speaking of the devil._ He saw the look on Sherlock's face, and what he was looking at. He didn't understand. Sherlock looked shocked and hopeful and angry and sad. Could that even be? All at once, on Sherlock's face! Hopeful, was something John understood: a new case was a new puzzle, after all. But why anger and sadness and shock? John couldn't wrap his head around it. What shocked him most of all was the _**blood thirst**_ in Sherlock' s eyes. As if Sherlock was yearning for revenge. But revenge for what? Not catching Moriarty? Losing John- _No, not losing me, I'm not important enough!_ John shook his head. He mustn't start hoping again, like he had done in the beginning. Sherlock had given him up, had abandoned him. He didn't want to remember the _hurt_ when he had found out he indeed was nothing but a pet to Sherlock. And yet he still was willing to give his live for the consulting detective.

He noticed Sherlock's mouth moving and strolled towards the control board. It had a ridiculous number of buttons. Curious, John pushed on the one that said 'mute'. He winced, because he could now hear Sherlock, and it was as if he was standing right next to him. John wined softly. Oh, how he had longed to hear a friendly voice, even more so that cold baritone. John walked to the screen and stretched his arm, wanting to _touch_ the consulting detective. If you didn't count the torture, he hadn't been touched in 198 days. He missed the feeling of a warm and friendly body, protecting him from whatever bad there was in the world. He missed his sister Harriet, his parents, his landlady-not-housekeeper Mrs. Hudson and Angelo, the excellent Italian cook. He missed DI Lestrade, sergeant Sally Donovan, Molly Hooper from the morgue. His fellow Yarders and doctors and rugby mates. Mycroft, Anthea –was that her real name? She had never told him- even forensic specialist Anderson. But most of all, he missed Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, genius, flatmate- friend?

(A/ N: imagine Moriarty acting like he was in the pool, I' m not describing how his face changes. )

'He looks rather emotional for a sociopath, doesn't he?' John turned around, only to see who he had already recognised by his voice. Jim Moriarty. 'I knew before him he wasn't a _real_ sociopath. I knew you had affected him somehow, but this...' He trailed off, shaking his head. 'And all for a _pet_. You've changed him. If I had known he would be this affected by you, I wouldn't have let you in the first place.' Strangely calm, John shook his head. 'No. You're _wrong_,' he said- triumphantly, for a reason he didn't know himself 'he doesn't care for me. He could have saved me from this hell all along. But he didn't. He doesn't want you to be caught, he wants to be **BLOODY ENTERTAINED!' **John had all but screamed those last words. Angry at Moriarty. All those lives- his life, too, probably sooner than later-taken just for entertainment. And Sherlock _needed_ those lives to be taken. Moriarty was balancing on his toes. 'I am sooooooo gonna regret this!' he said, as if he was giving his sweet sixteen invitations to school nerds on mtv. He bend over and whispered: 'He thinks you're _dead_!' He straightened his back again and nodded towards a clock counting down to John's right. 'Imagine his surprise when he can't find his pet up there!' There was less than a minute left.


	3. The day of the First Voice, part II

**A house near Porter Street, 12h07**

Holmes rang the doorbell. He looked at the house, making deductions automatically. It was the house next to Lestrade's . They were on vacation. Mrs. Lestrade had entered, probably to feed the fish in the aquarium he could see through the window. Sherlock smiled: he had heard her ,still screaming, in the background when Lestrade had called. No police-cars parked up front, so he was there first. Not a surprise, the house was not that far from Baker Street. Lestrade opened the door. He had a strange look in his eyes, noticed Sherlock. _What is going on?_ Then he stepped into the hall and he knew exactly what was going on. A man was hanging in the middle of the hall with his back to the door, his toes only an inch above the floor. He came up to Sherlock's eyes, if he would be able to stand up. His blond hair was military cut. He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans. Sherlock now understood Lestrade's facial expression. _John_. First, he stood there looking at the man's back for a minute. Then, step by step, he came closer to the body, afraid of what he might see. Finally, he was looking at the man's face, and let out a sigh of relief. He slapped himself on the forehead mentally and tried to compose his face again. _Of course it isn't John, get a hold of yourself!_

'That explains the look on your face when you opened the door. Good thing it wasn't something bad.' 'You're right, we only have a dead man hanging from the ceiling in a house that's not his! That deserves a party!'. Holmes raised his eyebrows at Lestrade. 'Oh, you know that was sarcasm!' Lestrade responded annoyed. Sherlock didn't answer, but turned his face to the body again. Lestrade softened. 'Are you all right? It could be coincidence?' he tried. 'Looking like that, right next door to you?' Sherlock snapped back. '**Think**, will you? It's Moriarty. He thinks he can haunt me with a dead body' _and he's doing a bloody good job, so far!_ Holmes forced himself to step closer to the body.

'See? Not a problem!' his eyes said. Although Lestrade was not convinced, he nodded.

Then: 'You can't touch the body. Wait for the team. Where are they, anyway?' Sherlock snorted.

'Oh please! It's not healthy to eat your doughnut too fast. No-one knows that better than a police officer. Besides, why hurry for someone who's already dead?' Lestrade eyed him. Sherlock was not impressed. He turned his back to the body to go say something unfriendly about Anderson. That was when they heard it.

'Get out!'

Sherlock froze. Hope, disbelief and a dozen other emotions shot through him. He hadn't heard that voice for 214 days, but he still recognised it. He looked to the body behind him.

'J-John?'

The man hanging there was dead.

'Get out, **now**!'

And so was the owner of that voice.

'Lestrade! Get him out!'

They weren't the same.

Lestrade pulled Sherlock towards the door. As he was dragged through the hall, he kept looking at the still body. He didn't want to leave John behind. _Again._

'Sherlock, get out!-_Sherlock, get out!'_ said the body and his mind.

He was trough the door and John was eaten by flames. _Again._

**John's prison cell, that night**

'You know, Johnny-boy, I wanted to finish Mr. Holmes off, there and then. But you just made it so much better.' John didn't respond. He just stared at his recently finished plate. Moriarty had turned up right after dinner. He had knocked- oh, so he _did_ know privacy- three times and now stood in the door opening, leaning on the doorpost to his right. He was grinning with delight. 'Oh, he lives, off course but'- John let out a breath he hadn't noticed he had held in- 'you gave me an idea that is so much better! You should really consider a criminal career'. He turned his back to John, said darkly over his shoulder: ' You are very good at it' and left a devastated John behind. For nearly the rest of the night, John banged his head against the wall of his cell.


	4. The Interlude

**I found my USB-sitck back! Woohoo!**

Sherlock and Lestrade only spoke of it once. "Why I dragged you out?"- It went- "Sherlock, if a dead man tells you to get out, you _get the hell out_! Even if it was a hallucination or an imposter, nothing else! John Watson is _dead_. Our imagination simply ran wild because our instincts were sounding the alarm bell. And if I notice any odd behavior of you, I'll tell your brother you're becoming suicidal. You know as well as I do you'll have hell to pay if I do, so you will just SHUT UP and act normal! Well, as normal as you can, anyway. Nothing out of the ordinary happened back there, okay. We will not talk of this again. Now you go- go do an experiment, or something. No doubt you have something _interesting_ on your kitchen table."

They never spoke of it again. There came other houses and other victims looking like John and other barely escaped explosions, and a promise to Mycroft to not get involved. But the voice never came back. Not for Lestrade, anyway. For Sherlock, it was a different matter entirely.


	5. The Day of the Change

**Oak Tree Road, John's birthday, evening **

Of course, Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't plan to go _exactly_ against his brother's wishes. _Not for one murder_, so he thought,_ will I let him think he has won_. The victim was discovered some days after his false promise to Mycroft. The victim wore a jumper that looked like John's favourite. He looked like John more than the others. For one instant, Sherlock wondered why the man had a party hat on. Then he suddenly remembered it was John's birthday. First he was angry at himself for forgetting. Then he mused why he was angry. He remembered how John would make a fuss about birthdays. He smiled at it for a moment, then ran. He collapsed in tears as soon as he was out of sight.

After that, the murders stopped. For some unknown reason, Moriarty stayed low. And Mrs. Hudson bought herself another fire extinguisher.

**John's new prison cell, afternoon**

Lying in his new prison cell, John thought on how he had ended up in here. It had begun after the fiasco in the home cinema. At first Jim Moriarty had come to mock John. Once a week, right after dinner was served (translation: shoved through a cat flap), he would come to talk to John. He knocked three times- he _did _know privacy, unlike certain other people, right Sherlock?- and would boast about another murder or terrorist attack or whatever he was responsible for.

Over time it had become a habit. And it would go about other things. THE wedding, gossip, news. Everything that didn't concern Jim, John or Sherlock. About one and a half month ago, Jim had brought a board game with him and since then, they would play while talking. Cluedo (Jim's favourite, no surprise there), Ludo (John's favourite, Jim was very easily annoyed) and other games passed the revue. When there were more than 2 persons required, Jim would call in his minions. They participated, but silently. Of course, John had resisted speaking too, in the beginning. But he was going _mental_, and he really was curious about what had happened out there while he was in here. So he gave in, and as company- _any company_- was very wanted, he had started to enjoy it. In his defence, he had been really lonely in his cell for the last months. Now he would receive books from time to time, and he was quite content. He had already gotten over the idea that he probably wouldn't die a free man.

Then, one day, he tasted something off about his tea. He woke up in a different room. With windows. He wouldn't believe himself, if he had said it, but when Jim stepped in his room, John gave him one of his bear hugs. And because there was no-one around to see it, Jim looked affectionately down at the blonde, smiled a genuine smile and hugged back. From then on they would talk on a daily basis.


	6. The Day of the Ghost

**A year, Moriarty's home cinema, Morning**

'Hello, Johnny-boy'. John nodded: 'Jim. Why have you invited me here?' Moriarty cocked his head sideways. 'Do you know what day it is?' 'No, but I bet you're gonna tell me anyway.' 'Of course you do.' Jim nodded towards the screen. 'It's the day you died. This was recorded yesterday.' John turned and looked. Probably a button camera as the perspective was only just above table level. Amazing quality though. He saw people from Bart's, some Yarders, rugby mates, DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, his last girlfriend Sarah, DI Dimmock, sergeant Sally. Judging from the looks Sally was giving the person who was wearing the camera, the man was- 'Anderson' John grumbled. Jim snickered. 'The man thinks we're a tabloid. Seriously, how thick can you be? Even for a copper, he's slow.' John couldn't agree more.

He looked back at the screen. His family. A stab hit him in the chest. Although they hadn't decently talked with each other since John had left for Afghanistan, he had really missed them. He noticed that Clara was there, too, holding ringed hands with his sister Harriet "Harry" Watson. His lesbian, alcoholic sister apparently sobered up to get back together again. Well, that was at least _some_ good news. Many people he had known, but hadn't seen in years. They were sitting around a large round table and talking with each other. Most of the conversations he could hear went about him. He saw that they glanced from time to time at a photo of him, that was standing before the empty chair between his parents. It was the photo the newspaper had taken when they had successfully closed their second case together. John knew that that was the photo where he looked the happiest. Then he saw it. Right next to Lestrade there was another empty chair. The one he wanted to be there the most wasn't there.

Apparently Moriarty had read his mind. 'Naughty boy, isn't he? Didn't even come to the memorial of his friend! Especially since he killed you. I'm going to teach him some manners. He'll regret insulting my guest.' John didn't even think of reminding him to his first months. Something said him Jim didn't like to be reminded that he had tortured him. There were now on some sort of amicable base. It was all very alike to his relationship with Sherlock. Suddenly someone came i:. Moriarty's right hand and sort-of-John, Sebastian Moran. In his hands was- John's old cane? 'What-?' 'The weather out there is not gonna do that leg of yours any good, although it is partially psychosomatic. I better make it up to you, since the partially-part is my doing. Sorry about that.' John almost didn't believe it. He stared at the cane. Moran gave it to him, shot a proud glance at Moriarty and walked back out. There was a ribbon- hot pink, urgh, very funny- attached and a card that said:

" Late happy birthday, John. Although the room with the windows were a dead give-away.

Moriarty"

So it _had_ been his birthday. It didn't surprise John Moriarty knew his birthday- he was a genius, after all- but he had given him a present. A birthday present. What the hell? Wasn't he supposed to be this evil super-genius à la "Mr. Bond, we meet again"? John wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn't heard it wrong. 'You're letting me go?' 'Yes, John, I am letting you go.'- slight exasperation and a little bit of sadness, John noticed, again sounding so like Sherlock he blinked-' But there are some arrangements to be made. First: you are not John Watson. Your name is John Nesbitt now. I have a file prepared for you with your new past. Make sure you remember it well. Second: you can only see the people from your past from afar. They can only see you in the corner of their eyes and think that you're just someone that looks like John Watson and that their mind is playing tricks on them. People are stupid enough for it. There is only one exception. Which leads me to rule number three: Sherlock Holmes. You will haunt him.'

John must have looked incredibly incredulous, because he added: 'And I mean that'. 'Of course, you mean almost everything you say, but-' Jim was beaming at the compliment- 'But _haunting_ Sherlock? He doesn't even _believe_ in ghosts, how could I possibly pull that off?' Now Jim just looked downright disappointed. 'Easy, John. **Think, **will you? His brain will short-circuit and he'll lose all sense of logic upon seeing a dead man.' John flinched. It was as if he heard Sherlock brainstorming on a difficult case- literally, the man' s brain stormed. 'Use your imagination. You just have to do it on the moments I tell you- it's all in the file- and you can leave the rest to us.' He laughed. 'You'll scare the living daylights out of him. He is so sure you're dead, because of my pawns at the Yard. They feigned the DNA-results and dental records, so you are officially dead.' A silence fell. 'Why are you letting me go?' Jim's face darkened. 'You know you shouldn't ask me stupid questions. It annoys me. I might change my mind.' Then he brightened again. 'Bye-bye, Johnny-boy!' John felt a sting in the back of his neck. _Oh no, not again_, he thought as darkness enveloped him. He didn't even feel himself touch the ground.

**Regent's Park, midday**

John woke up on a bench, his head resting on a large sporting bag. He found himself in a park, that he recognised as Regent's. There was not a soul to be seen. His cane, he saw now, was leaning on the bench. Looking up at the grey sky, he thought_: It will be raining soon, I better look for shelter. _He took his cane and the bag and got up, only to sit down again. His head was still reeling a little. He should probably wait until his headache was over. In the meantime, he checked his bag to see what was in it and found a set of keys, a small umbrella, the London A to Z _(A reference to the Blind Banker case, how thoughtful)_, a wallet with enough money to get by comfortably for at least two weeks, an agenda, an expensive looking cell phone, a rather large file, a passport without a picture and a small plastic bag containing everything he needed to look like himself, but with slightly darker hair and brown eyes. Obviously, Jim didn't want Big Brother Mycroft to know there was a leak at Scotland Yard and that John had slipped through it. He read the file slowly, remembering the name he was given by Moriarty, John Nesbitt. He found out he owned a flat just outside the centre of London, a small vault at the bank of England and –_Good heavens, a __**car**_? He shook his head. What on earth had gotten into the brilliant and evil mind of Jim Moriarty? He'd once said his relation to John was very similar to how he and Sebastian were at their very beginning. Sebastian and John were thus each other's mirror image, on opposite sides of the law. If this was what Jim would do for Sebastian _then_, what would he do for Sebastian _now_? Destroy the world upon his death? Jim wasn't a sociopath either, John had found out. He _really_ didn't want to know how the rest of the world would find out.

The sky went darker and John stood up again to try and find shelter. This time, it worked, although he had to rely on his cane to keep himself from falling over again. He looked at the sky to find out where the south was and started for that direction. But when he was about to make the eighth step, he faltered. He knew why. _One- two- three- four- five- six- seven, wall, turn, one- two- three- four- five- six- seven. _ For months on end he had taken no more than seven steps before bumping into the walls of his cell. He shuddered, remembering every moment of those months. The torture and the waiting. The sadness and his desperate attempts to break down the walls with his bare hands. The acceptance of his fate. His release. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and stepped over that invisible line, illogically waiting for the bullet. It didn't come. He sighed and his muscles relaxed. He opened his eyes. A scream of triumph made his way up and he let it out. He danced and yelled as if he was an Indian with a bad leg begging for rain. And the rain came. As it descended upon his beloved London, he could feel the raindrops roll down his face. He was overjoyed, tears mixing with the typical London drizzle. He heard the Big Ben chime midday: _Welcome back, John Watson!_ He really was back: he was happy and exited and soaked to the bone in a deserted London park. And he was _free_.

**221B Baker Street, 3 past midnight**

Sherlock sat on the windowsill with the window open- snipers be damned- and played on his violin. Really played, not screeching and plucking as he had done in the beginning. He didn't know what exactly he was playing, but at least it was music. Then a cat passed to see who dared to torture his fellow feline. He shooed it away, only to hear John chuckle as soon as the "music" stopped. Hearing John was one of the more important reasons why he hadn't gone to the memorial the previous day. That, and the fact that he would probably cry as soon as he saw John's family, from whom he knew they looked so much like him. He had seen them when he had done research about his new flatmate. And what with hearing John, well... Hearing voices of the dead was something he wouldn't tell anyone, he was called a psychic already. Some people are just too thick to understand how he knew so much of them. He was fairly sure they wouldn't react the same way John had.

' _That was amazing!'John said, after Sherlock had explained how he knew so much about John. Sherlock looked confused. 'You think so?' 'Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was __**quite**__ extraordinary.' 'That's not what people usually say.' 'Then what do they say?' John asked, not understanding what else could be said about Sherlock's deductions. Sherlock smiled a little and looked at John, who was sitting beside him in the cab: ' "Piss off" '._

John always managed to make him smile. Sherlock thought that maybe it was the way John used to say things. He probably wouldn't have been able to hide his smile during the memorial, if he had gone. John's comments could be very funny, especially about something that was bound to be religious. Like, for example, a memorial.

Hearing John chuckle as he chased away the cat, Sherlock thought that, maybe, he could arrange his own little memorial in honour of John Watson. He closed his eyes and thought of John. Of how they had met, of John saying things like "brilliant and "fantastic" out loud whenever Sherlock explained his deductions, of them giggling like fools in the hallway after another wild chase, of cuddly jumpers and tea, of buying milk and rows with chip-and-pin-machines. And he played. He played as if he could express with carved wood and strings what John Watson had been. He let the whole world know how _John_ John Watson had been. When he finally finished after enveloping himself in his memories, he heard something. Someone was slowly clapping on the street below. It didn't sound like the friendly kind of applause.

Surprised- and surprised he was surprised- Sherlock immediately looked down at his chest to check for any red dots swirling there. There were none there, and he looked down and across the street, at the person who had applauded. He stood in the shadows, so his features were unclear. Sherlock could even barely see there was a person there, because he wore black clothes with a hood. Face and hands were nothing but light spots. It seemed like the person was looking up at Sherlock. 'Very nice', the person said, 'A shame that you never played like that for me, I would have appreciated it.' Sherlock quickly jumped up, carelessly dropping his violin. He recognized that voice anywhere, especially since he had last heard it only minutes ago. But this voice wasn't in his mind, it came from across the street. _It's probably just an impersonator, like it must have been an impersonator so long ago,_ Sherlock tried to reassure himself. It was eerie how accurately the man had completely mastered John's speech pattern. The voice, the drops and falls, the emphases, I was all so _John. _'Who are you?' he asked. 'You don't know yet?' the man scoffed. ' Blimey, and I thought you were smart! Can't you recognize me by my voice alone? You were always so smug about you seeing and hearing it all, and now look at yourself.' A silence. And then: ' Or did you delete me from that hard drive of yours? Is that it?' Sherlock was intrigued. And a little bit spooked.

' _Look,' Sherlock said to John from the couch 'it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister, or who's sleeping with who...'. '-Or that the earth goes around the sun…' John filled in helpfully. 'Oh God,' Sherlock mumbled ' Not that again. It's not _important_!'. John looked a bit taken aback at that:' Not impo-? It's _primary_ school stuff, _**how**_ can you not know that?'Sherlock pressed his thumbs against his closed eyes. 'Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it.' he mumbled. ' "Deleted it"?' John echoed. Sherlock sat up straight and laid down the magazine he had been holding. 'Listen', he said and he pointed to his head, '_This_ is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. _**Really**_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters! Do you _see_?' . There were 2 seconds of silence. 'But it's the _solar_ system!''Oh, hell!', Sherlock groaned, raising his voice a little, ' What does it _**matter**_? So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or … round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! _All that matters to me is the work_! Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog - or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.' He slapped at the magazines that lay on the coffee table, pulled his dressing gown close and lay back in the couch in fetal position, with his back to John._

How on earth did Moriarty know of that conversation? Itn hadn't even been mentioned on John's blog, he knew. The man on the street continued, but softer now. 'Why didn't you come? Why didn't you save me? You're Sherlock Holmes, if anyone could do it, it would be you. Was- ' The man breathed in and out, trembling a little. 'Was Moriarty right, was I really only a pet to you? Was I too dull, too normal for you? Too unimportant? I didn't matter enough to you, was that it?' Louder and louder, sharper and sharper the man's voice became, until his accusations cut through Sherlock like a blade.

_All that matters to me is the work!_

Why was that, why did it hurt so much? Surely he, Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't be affected by his memories or by words given by Moriarty and said with the voice of a long dead friend- flatmate- no, friend, definitely and irrevocably: _friend_? But he was and he didn't understand why. And for some reason- some obscure, unknown reason, Sherlock wished it really was John saying those things, because it would mean that he was alive. But he also wished it wasn't John, because then John would think Sherlock had given up on him because he didn't matter, _And I _**have**_ given up on him, but he _**does**_ matter._ Sherlock felt confused and _I _**can't**_ be confused I'm Sherlock Holmes! _ The man down on the street sighed. 'But you did matter to me, Sherlock, and you still do. You were the world to me, Sherlock, you really were. And I would DIE for you. But then again, I guess I did.' The man stepped into the light and removed his hood. With all his intelligence, Sherlock' s mind could only come up with one word and one word only: _Bollocks!_

* * *

><p>Normally, Sherlock would have said something like this:<p>

'You do not exist. You are the offspring of my guilt and my imagination, or the work of Moriarty's plastic surgeons. Go now, before I shoot you, and know that I am not scared of so-called ghosts!'

What he actually said, sounded something more like this:

'GYARGH!'

Sherlock launched himself backwards, tripped over the coffee table and crash-landed on the sofa. While he was still in a bit of a daze caused by the bad landing, he mentally kicked himself for not paying intention at Sunday School. At the time he had questioned his parents' sanity for even **trying, **but now, who knows? Maybe there had been a lesson about spirits and souls and so on. It was not that farfetched, considering they believed in heaven. Sherlock racked his been in search of what he had seen at Sunday school, but could only remember writing "bored" a hundred times over in his notebook. _Blast!_ Well, chapter or not, he would go out and find out what the thing across the street really was.

But as he flew through his door, off the stairs and into the hall, he thought: _why_? He stopped dead in his tracks.

Why was he chasing something that had scared him? Wait a minute: it _had_ scared him! Nothing _scared_ him! So how could John scare Sherlock and make him want to search for him at the same time? Maybe-maybe _because_ it was John. Because it could be John standing there, across the street alive and well, albeit those scars he had fleetingly seen in his face. Because there was no-one in the world he wanted back more than John.

Because he loved John. Realization struck him like lightning. He LOVED John. HE loved John. _Oh_. That explained _everything_. And nothing at the same time. He was the sociopath, the freak, the I'm-married-to-work- detective. He COULDN'T have feelings, he COULDN'T love. And yet he did, and he loved it, and he hated it. If only he could have seen it sooner! If he had, he could have… would have… He had never used "If only's" before. They didn't belong in his world of logic. There were so many first things with John and there could have been so much more! If only John hadn't- But there was maybe still a chance to make up for it. Maybe John hadn't died. With that, Sherlock lunged for the door, threw it open and almost _dived_ for the street. He looked around wildly, longingly, desperately.

Not a soul.

Sherlock moaned and lowered himself on to the pavement. He sobbed and shuddered. A hallucination. A lie. John was not standing on the other side of street. He was not smiling warmly at Sherlock, not looking with awe at him, not even looking hatefully at him. He was cold and dead and deep underground. He was not alive and Sherlock was going insane. The hope that maybe, just maybe, John loved him back and they could make true all those strange, nice, domestic "if only"-thoughts that had flittered through his mind mere seconds ago, had died swiftly and painfully. When Sherlock had realized his feelings, it had struck him violently, but beautifully. But now… now he could best describe the agony that plagued him as his heart being ripped right out of his chest and in its place- _his_ place, because his heart had _been_ John- now beating a white-hot iron, forever there and _burning_.

It wasn't even close.


End file.
